


Faire ce qu'il faut

by Vegan_Venom



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Era, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Lies, M/M, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vegan_Venom/pseuds/Vegan_Venom
Summary: If any one of the members of Les Amis, privy to the details of plots and trusted with the names of contacts, were in danger of selling out their group to the authorities, Enjolras would do whatever it took to secure their continued loyalty.Amid an atmosphere of growing paranoia and to avert any plans of betrayal, Enjolras must convince Grantaire that the drunkard's love for him is returned.





	1. Un coeur fracassé

The fires of revolution were stirring in Paris, and every man, woman and child in the city surely felt it. Each week brought more news of injustices inflicted on the most vulnerable in society, of shortages of bread and other food staples, or of crackdowns by the National Guard. Whilst all these did a compelling job of stoking republican fervour in the populace, it was the latter which most immediately concerned the band of students who made up Les Amis de l’ABC. Freedom of association was a thing of the past, and simply being a member of a society such as theirs was illegal. The risk of arrest was even more apparent when one came to learn that their activities went far beyond idle debate and pamphleteering. 

Enjolras, their leader, was invigorated by the atmosphere in the streets and cafés, and his usual determination burned hotter than ever. His passion for the cause had all the single-mindedness and ardour of a man in love, and every moment not sleeping he devoted to his mistress: the idea of freedom. But as a man often is in the early stages of courtship, Enjolras had become paranoid of late, worrying that she might be snatched away from him by some unscrupulous gentleman adept in the art of trickery. Each time they received news of the arrests of their comrades in similar groups, or of a contact mysteriously disappearing, Les Amis grew more wary than ever of eavesdroppers, potential spies, or leaks in communications. They met only in private locations, learned to speak and write in code, and restricted knowledge of their more revolutionary operations to the core members of their group.

It was in this environment of suspicion that Courfeyrac, a lieutenant of the group, had convinced the wife of the owner of the Café Musain to allow them the sole use of the back room. In exchange he had promised the woman that they would eat and drink plenty to make it profitable, but Enjolras suspected it had more to do with his friend’s easy charm. 

On the most recent day they had spent there, Enjolras had arrived at dawn, joined shortly by his right-hand man, Combeferre. As the morning went on, nearly all their members had visited, one or two at a time, to be briefed and then sent on errands. Some were relatively easy tasks, such as delivering a letter in person or distributing their writings. Others, for example procuring arms or negotiating alliances, required a more careful approach.

When Grantaire stumbled in at just past midday, bottle in hand, Enjolras did not debate over which category of assignment to send him on. Rather, he debated whether the drunkard should be trusted with any job at all. But Grantaire had begged and pleaded, debasing himself in a manner which made Enjolras’ cheeks burn with sympathetic humiliation. Eventually he had given in, assigning him a task so simple a gamin could have done it if it hadn’t required utmost secrecy, and Enjolras had been only too happy to see the back of Grantaire.

As the sun began to set, however, Enjolras came to realise he had been mistaken in bestowing even that small amount of responsibility on the man. All the rest of his trusted deputies had returned throughout the afternoon to report their progress and discuss further action. As evening rolled around most had already departed, off to share supper with their mistresses or enjoy a well-earned early night. Enjolras remained, along with his two closest friends, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, waiting in candlelight for Grantaire to check in.

“I do not see what could possibly be taking him so long,” Enjolras complained. “Had I entrusted this task to any other man, or _boy_ , he would be back within the hour. M. Favager has his workshop not two miles away.”

“Ah yes,” Courfeyrac agreed, quirking an eyebrow so perfectly sculpted that Enjolras suspected him of having it plucked as ladies often did. “But the route there would take him through the Place Saint-Michel, then down the Rue de l’Église and further. And how many drinking establishments and other places a man might take pleasure must he pass? I myself have frequented a number of decent public houses and cafés on Grantaire’s route, and he is not a man so discerning in his tastes as I. Libertine that he is, I am sure he has just become distracted by a pretty dress. Or even a pretty bottle.” Courfeyrac laughed and sipped at his wine.

“But _you_ would not have become distracted, my friend,” Enjorlas huffed in reply. “You grasp the importance of our work, the need for secrecy, competency and _rapidity_.”

“Oh let him be,” Courfeyrac said, unconcerned. “Grantaire will be back, soon enough. Perhaps with a little more colour in his cheeks, but he could not fail in so simple a job, and he never seems able to stay away.” _”…from you”_ he muttered at the end, just loud enough for Enjolras to hear.

Sure enough, two hours later Grantaire returned, almost tripping over his feet in his drunkenness. He had not, however, completed his task.

“How is it possible that you were gone the entirety of the afternoon and the evening, and still failed to deliver our message to M. Favager?” Enjolras admonished, his patience eroded through waiting long past a decent hour to leave the café. “This was a task so simple I believed even _you_ could not be defeated in it.”

“Then I am pleased that I am still able to challenge your beliefs,” Grantaire replied with a lazy smile. “One should always aim to surprise one’s friends, and go beyond their expectations.”

“We are hardly friends. I would not even say you qualify as our comrade, unless you can remind me of a time in the last two years in which you have helped our cause.”

“I never fail to attend a meeting, which is more than I can say for most of your other friends.” Grantaire gestured towards the now-empty chairs in the rest of the room. “And you have my absolute loyalty.”

Enjolras scoffed. “Loyalty is of little use when it does not extend to so much as delivering a message. Your belief in our cause cannot be so absolute if you lack the motivation to do even that.”

“I never pretended to believe in your cause, dear leader. In revolution, in justice and equality for all men, in all those great and empty words which will never come to anything.”

Enjolras stood, red in the face with anger from the deliberate provocation. “Then what on Earth _do_ you believe in?”

“I believe in you.”

“What kind of useless answer is that? I have no need of your belief, Grantaire, unless you wish to share in my goal of the emancipation of the people.”

“Nevertheless, you have it.”

“What use have I of it, if you cannot complete an assignment I might have sent a child to do?”

“I can think of many ways you might make use of me,” Grantaire replied with a smirk, and Courfeyrac coughed around a mouthful of wine.

“Drunkard!” Enjolras shouted, incensed. “You think I have even the slightest desire to make use of you? You are good for nothing but drinking, gambling and chasing those few women who can stand to look at your face.”

Grantaire looked dejected, but he pressed on. “Still, there is nothing I would not do for you, my Apollo. I will be your ever-faithful acolyte, on my knees to worship you, for you to use as you will.”

“You insult me with your ramblings,” Enjolras sneered. “If you cannot be of use in Les Amis, then you are of no use to me at all. Were you worshipping at my feet, I would kick you away.”

Grantaire blinked quickly, his voice only trembling slightly as he replied. “I would be glad of it.”

“You sicken me!” Enjolras cried, and shrugged off the hand Combeferre had placed on his shoulder to try to placate him. “You follow me around with your perverted leering and your misdirected hero worship, but I am repelled by it. If that is your only purpose in life, as it seems to be, then I struggle to see why you should bother with life at all!”

Grantaire’s mouth twisted in a poor effort to conceal his true expression, only succeeding in highlighting the asymmetry of his features. For a few long seconds only Enjolras’ breathing, loud and heavy in his anger, could be heard. Then Grantaire lowered his gaze and nodded minutely, turning on his heel and escaping down the stairs onto the Rue des Grés. An open wine bottle was knocked off a nearby table in his clumsy haste, but his steps did not falter when he heard it shatter. The thousand little pieces of jagged glass were left to scatter across the floor of the Musain, and a deep red stain seeped into the wooden boards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have three chapters of this written, and I was hoping to write more before I posted any to avoid losing momentum. But all that's happened is that they have sat on my hard drive unchanged for two months, so clearly what I need is some feedback to motivate me to continue writing. If you have any, I'd very much appreciate it.
> 
> Come poke me on my [tumblr.](https://veganvenom.tumblr.com/)


	2. Une nécessité

When Grantaire did not return to the café the next morning, no man among them was surprised. And when a full day had passed with no sign of Grantaire, the first meeting he had missed in his two years in the society, his friends assumed him to be sleeping off an ill-advised night of debauchery. Three days later, everyone but their leader was concerned, and Jean Prouvaire was dispatched to try to locate their wayward comrade. He returned in the afternoon with news.

“You will all be relieved, I’m sure, to learn that R is alive and still in the city, with no great illness as concerns his body,” Prouvaire declared solemnly. “But his heart is another matter. O, I despair to have witnessed his gloom. In his stupor he described an angel rendering his very soul in two, and I wish I had thought to bring a pen with me, to have captured his words.”

“So he is well enough, then, Jehan,” Courfeyrac interrupted. “Only a little sore in spirit from our chief’s verbal lashing.”

“It was your doing, then?” Prouvaire turned towards Enjolras, displaying as much anger as could be managed on the face of a man so unthreateningly soft. “I might have known it was more than a deterioration of his usual dejection. What did you say to him, to break his heart so utterly?”

“You talk as if I am one of those many grisettes who has deserted Grantaire, but I merely chastised him for failing yet again to meet even my lowest expectations.”

Prouvaire affixed him with an incredulous look. “You pretend that you do not recognise the power your regard holds over him, but I know that even you could not be so oblivious. No, I think you cruel!” 

Courfeyrac approached Prouvaire then, putting an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. He immediately relaxed into the embrace.

“I said nothing which was not the truth,” Enjolras responded. “If Grantaire has no regard for our cause, then his emotionality and lack of responsibility is merely a distraction we cannot bear. I will be glad if he never returns.”

Prouvaire began to cry then, and Courfeyrac guided to his head to rest against his chest. 

Enjolras looked ready to say something more, but Combeferre discouraged him with a pointed look. Enjolras sighed and made his way back over to his papers, leaving his other friends to coo over Prouvaire’s latest mood.

 

By the next day Enjolras had forgotten about Grantaire entirely, devoting his thoughts to more important matters. At just past midday, Feuilly entered the café, and as usual Enjolras gave him his full attention. He had always had no small amount of respect for the man, and any input Feuilly had would be most welcome.

“Friends, I bring news,” he began, and paused to take a mouthful of the wine Courfeyrac had just pressed into his hand. “Though I am sad to say it will not please you. I have heard from a friend – you will forgive me for being afraid to speak his name when you have listened to the rest of my story – who is a member of La Société des Étudiants pour la Liberté. I am sorry to report that their meeting was raided last night, and near all of our comrades from the group were arrested. Eleven men in total, including their leader, Laurent, whom I’m certain some of you will have had occasion to meet.”

There were gasps and whispers from the men gathered in the room, not of surprise but of the implications for them. Their society was not so different after all, and now the risk of arrest seemed ever more immediate. Feuilly finished off his glass and continued.

“My friend has strong reasons to believe that they were betrayed. Not by an infiltrator, but by one of their own, a student of medicine by the name of Fournier. It is said that Fournier became embroiled in an argument with another member over a woman they both laid claim to, and that after she chose the other man Fournier gave his rival’s name to an officer in the National Guard in revenge. It is not known whether he intended to catch all his other associates in his act of malice, but it was inevitable.”

“I hear the Guard are now offering a reward of fifty livres for information concerning rabble-rousers,” Bossuet contributed. 

Courfeyrac was saying something in reply, but Enjolras was caught up in his own thoughts as he abruptly realised the parallels with their own situation. But surely he had not set in motion their own demise with his harsh words of a few days ago. Feeling a panic setting upon him, Enjolras pulled Combeferre aside and into the far corner of the room, where they could converse without being overheard.

“You are worried about Grantaire,” Combeferre stated, always being able to read his closest friend’s thoughts as though his skull were glass. 

Enjolras nodded gravely. “You do not think that he might…”

“I do not know,” Combeferre replied. He spent a few moments in thought, then, no doubt in careful consideration of all relevant variables. Then he continued. “As he himself declared the other day, he is fiercely loyal to you personally, but if operas have taught me anything, it is that men and women often respond with vengeance upon having their hearts broken.”

“I would not expect this talk from you, also. Prouvaire’s dramatisation of Grantaire’s bruised ego was bad enough, but you have always been a more rational sort.”

Combeferre sighed, removing his spectacles and polishing them with the hem of his shirt. “I have been loath to breach this topic before now, as I was previously quite confident that you simply did not wish to speak of it. But now I am convinced you are in denial, so I shall speak plainly. Grantaire is in love with you. I do not speak of Romantic love, such as I have for you, or of a passing fancy or base passion as he might have for his mistresses. I mean the love Pylades had for Orestes, or that Nisus had for Euryalas. Do you understand?”

Enjolras was silent for a moment, his eyebrows drawn. “You are serious?” he said after a time. Combeferre was rarely wrong about people, and as challenging as it was for Enjolras to believe what he was saying, he trusted his friend’s judgement.

“I am. You really did not know, then?”

“I had read… _overtones_ in some of his ramblings, but I had always thought it to be just another method he employed to aggravate me.” Enjolras’ cheeks coloured, but he forced himself to say, “I thought he meant to draw attention to his guess that I would enjoy the attentions of a man over those of a woman.”

Combeferre nodded, seemingly unconcerned by his friend’s veiled confession. “I can see why you drew such a conclusion, though in my opinion you overlooked the most obvious theory given the facts available to you. So knowing Grantaire’s feelings for you, and that you have likely damaged them more than you have ever before, what else must we consider in assessing whether he would betray us?”

Combeferre paused for a breath to allow Enjolras to contribute if he wished, but Enjolras was still caught up in the revelation of Grantaire’s feelings for him. After a few seconds Combeferre continued as though his question had been rhetorical. 

“I believe that Grantaire also has loyalty to his friends here, even if he does not share in our common belief. But as much as it pains me to admit, we must also remember that Grantaire has an unpredictable nature, and has likely spent most of his fortune on wine, dominoes and women, that is if he has not yet run into debt. So we cannot rule out the appeal of a police reward on the man. There is also the simple risk that he may throw caution to the wind whilst drunk, and in a fit of pique reveal our names or the plans to which he is privy.”

Enjolras was seized by a panic when he realised how much information on them Grantaire might have. The man had spent most of his days for the past two years in the café with them, becoming drunk more or less quietly in the corner when not loudly arguing against their ideals. Enjolras cursed himself for ignoring Grantaire’s presence, when he might have been listening at any time.

“I will go immediately!” he declared.

“And do what?” Combeferre enquired, his confused look more of a squint without his glasses on.

“Convince him not to give us up, of course.”

“And how do you plan to convince him?”

“By explaining what is at stake. This is about more than his _feelings_. It is about the very future of our country. Revolution is the only way forward, and we _must_ succeed. There are people starving in the streets, children who-“

“Stop just there,” Combeferre interrupted. “Grantaire has heard your speeches countless times before, and no matter how reasoned they may be, they have never moved him. Why should it work now?”

Enjolras frowned more deeply. He liked to believe that every man could be swayed by the truth of his convictions, but it was true that Grantaire was likely immovable. What, then, could he do?

“I must make an apology,” Enjolras realised.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Would you mean it?”

“Of course not! But I would do far more than tell one simple lie for our republic.”

Combeferre looked unhappy but resigned. “I am still not sure even that will work. Will you allow me to seek a second opinion? Courfeyrac is closer to Grantaire, and may have a better idea of the disordered way in which his brain functions.”

“You may, as long as you promise not to bring up any… _indelicate_ topics.”

Combeferre smiled with what Enjolras thought was pity, and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “You have nothing to fear from me, my friend.” Then he was off to the other side of the room to rescue Courfeyrac from an argument he seemed to be having with Feuilly over the frivolity of dandyism. Enjolras barely had time to calm himself before his two closest friends were in front of him.

“I am told you would like my opinion on some personal matter,” Courfeyrac announced jovially, straightening his cravat. “Could it be our chief has decided to update his sense of fashion to this decade? Or, no, perhaps he has bloomed into a man and would like to procure an introduction to one of my lovely lady friends?”

Enjolras huffed. “It is nothing so inconsequential as that. I wish to know whether, in your opinion, Grantaire would genuinely forgive me if I went to him with an apology for my behaviour several nights past.”

Courfeyrac’s hands flew to his chest in dramatic flair. “I am astonished, Enjolras. If I am to be honest with you, I would never have thought you considered R to be anything more than a bothersome fly buzzing around your face. I must commend you for your desire to repent, late as it is.”

“You believe the time has passed then, for Enjolras to make amends?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac frowned, and the look was unnatural on his handsome face. “I _am_ sorry to say this, and I hope I am wrong, but Jehan has told me some of the man’s pains. As our poet said, R’s heart is thoroughly broken, and it seems to me that even a gesture of friendship would be too little now. He would likely suspect that you merely wished him to rejoin our society. I _do_ hope that is not your motivation, Enjolras.”

Enjolras ignored this last sentence, and put his experience traversing difficult situations to use. What options were left to him? The most obvious flashed through his mind, ashamed though Enjolras was to give it even a second’s thought: they might kill Grantaire. The idea was abhorrent, but did they have any other choice? Combeferre, as a pacifist, would never allow it if he knew, so Enjolras would have to take matters into his own hands and dispose of Grantaire quietly. The solution repulsed him, and yet he knew that if the decision was between taking one life and saving all his friends and their plans of revolution, there could only be one answer. Enjolras would do whatever needed to be done.

Just as he was about to dismiss his friends and pretend to give up on the situation, another, more wild idea occurred to Enjolras. At first he tried to dismiss it as ridiculous, as some laughable plot in a comedic play, but as it became fleshed out in his mind he realised that it was possible. And if there existed any alternative to murder, he would be forced by his morals to choose it. 

“My friends,” Enjolras started, interrupting a conversation Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been having whilst he had been lost in thought. “I believe I am obligated to apologise, even if it will likely do no good. I owe it to Grantaire to try.”

As Enjolras gathered up his coat and gloves, he steeled himself for the biggest lie he would ever have to sell in order to save his dream of a republic. He would have to convince Grantaire that his love was returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me to continue writing this!
> 
> I've only written one more page (of chapter 4), but I decided that meant I was allowed to post chapter 2. Tbh this is my favourite chapter, and it can only go downhill from here I'm afraid.
> 
> There are a lot of voices in this one - please let me know if you think I've messed up anyone's characterisation too badly.


	3. Le premier acte

As Enjolras hurried down the darkened streets to Grantaire’s lodgings, he fidgeted constantly, adjusting his coat and hat and rubbing his gloved hands together as if to warm them, though it was a mild spring evening. More than once he stopped in his tracks and made as if to turn back, but gathered his determination and strode on. Abandoning this plan, as outrageous as it was, would mean either condemning Grantaire to death, or accepting a massive risk to his dreams of an equal and just republic. He _must_ go on.

To keep his mind from panic Enjolras sketched out likely scenarios in his head, and taught himself lines as though he were both playwright and actor. The future depended on how convincing he could be, and yet among Les Amis he was doubtlessly the most ill equipped in dealing with matters of love. It was common knowledge that Enjolras had lain with neither man nor woman in his twenty-three years, and in fact he had never even shared a kiss with another before. 

As a trio of giggling young ladies passed him by, Enjolras remembered something his father had once taught him: to sell a lie, one should wrap it in a truth. The wretched old man had meant it in reference to complimenting a woman, no doubt, but Enjolras relaxed as he thought of how he could apply it in his own situation. He could perhaps avoid whoring his body out for his country this way. Grantaire should not expect their physical liaisons to progress so quickly. For though Enjolras dreamed sometimes, in the darkness of his bedroom, of love between men, he was shy from never having experienced it before. Two truths, and one lie: that he had any desire whatsoever to enact such love with Grantaire.

In almost no time at all Enjolras was stood outside Grantaire’s building, and he raised his fist to knock on the front door. It remained there, though, hovering in the air an inch from the wood. Was he really capable of this? Capable of acting like a fool in love, of begging for a chance if necessary, of… _kissing_ Grantaire? The very idea was almost a joke. Grantaire was a drunkard, a cynic, and hardly a handsome man. He was almost Enjolras’ opposite. But he dismissed these personal objections. This was for the republic, and for that dream Enjolras would do anything. He knocked on the door.

After half a minute an elderly woman opened it. Before Enjolras could even explain who he was there to see she had stepped to the side and waved him in, disinterested. Enjolras frowned at such lax security, and made his way up the darkened staircase until he found a door which bore the plaque he was searching for. Calling it a plaque was a kindness though. It was merely a piece of thick parchment nailed to the wood, reading _‘M. Grantaire’_ in smudged lettering. 

The door was ajar, but Enjolras still knocked and waited. When he received no response he called out, “Grantaire?”. Stepping across the threshold, however, he noticed that a candle was lit in the far corner of what seemed to be a small room, though Enjolras could see no sign of its occupant. He looked around and took in his surroundings in as much detail as he could in the poor lighting. The smell was foul, and Grantaire’s belongings appeared to be strewn across every inch of visible floor space. There was no bed, but merely a collection of blankets on the floor. Did Grantaire really live in such squalor? Dishevelled though he usually was, he kept up the appearance of being a gentleman well enough.

Spotting an unlit candle on a chest of drawers close to him, Enjolras drew a box of matches from his overcoat pocket and struck one, wanting to see the room with a little more clarity. 

“Joly?” came a voice, and Enjolras almost dropped the lit match in his surprise. Ignoring his rapidly beating heart for a moment, he forced himself to continue in his motion of lighting the candle, throwing his surroundings into a little more clarity. A figure was slumped in the corner, and Enjolras realised he had taken the man for a pile of clothing before. The face was recognisably Grantaire’s, to his relief, though his eyes were closed and he did not look well.

“No. I’m not Joly,” Enjolras answered, and Grantaire’s eyes snapped open.

“Ha! I am hallucinating again. What a cruel place my mind is, that it would torment me with your visage when all I want is to be rid of you. You are a merciless god, that you would return to see me die with my blood still on your sword. I had taken you for Apollo, but in the softness of this candlelight I can see I was mistaken. It is Adrestia, or Nemesis in another name, daughter of Ares and Aphrodite, who stands before me. Do not take offense at being compared with a minor goddess, I beg you – though how an apparition could take offense I am not sure. Adrestia was the child of war and love, of violence and beauty, and will you not agree that this suits you perfectly? She stood for revenge, retribution, revolt, revolution. The Greeks spoke of Adrestia as ‘she whom none can escape’. And certainly I cannot seem to be free of you. I am a Galilean satellite trapped in the orbit of a sun, though its light is blinding, its heat burning, and its flames strip my surface bare leaving only scorched earth behind.”

“Are you well, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, worried, moving a little closer and crouching to the floor to be at his height. “You do not look it. Have you a fever?”

“A fever? Quite! My heart is burning itself to cinders in its madness, while the rest of me freezes, never to know your touch. How I wish my mind had conjured some other ghost to bring to me in my misery.”

“I am no ghost, my friend,” Enjolras reassured him, reaching out a hand to place it on Grantaire’s forehead. “Your skin is a little clammy, but not excessively warm. I am no doctor, but a fever is unlikely. Are you drunk?”

“I wish I were, but I ran out of wine two days past. I cannot bring myself to go out into such a cruel world to fetch more,” Grantaire murmured, reaching up with a shaking hand to wrap his fingers around Enjolras’ wrist before he could pull it away. “It is really you, then, come to see me? For what purpose?” He was quiet now, his red-rimmed eyes searching Enjolras’.

“I wished to make sure you were well,” Enjolras answered, forcing his voice to be gentle.

“I consider this unlikely. You made it perfectly clear the last time we spoke how little you care for my wellbeing. My life is nothing to you.”

“I regret saying that.”

“Why show regret for the truth?” Grantaire exclaimed, his voice getting louder. “You cast me aside like a soiled handkerchief, and now I am where I deserve to be: at your feet, to be stepped over like trash.”

Enjolras took a breath, and became in an instant a concerned man in love. “Do not say such a thing,” he instructed firmly, capturing Grantaire’s hand in both of his and pressing it. “I was cruel, I admit it, but I cannot bear it any longer. I have finally driven you away as intended, but now that you have been gone for so many days I am full of regret. I cannot stand to see your chair in the Musain empty, Grantaire. Please, allow me to make amends.”

Grantaire’s face was full of suspicion. “Was it Courfeyrac who sent you here? Or Bahorel perhaps, somehow pulled you into this joke. I cannot imagine Jehan would condone it if he knew.”

“Nobody sent me,” Enjolras said, trying to highlight the truth of his words, for that statement was honest at least. “I came of my own accord, because I… because I felt your absence keenly.”

“Do not insult my intelligence,” he responded, hurt. “You have never seen me as a friend, and you would rather me out of the way of your schemes.”

“I have never seen you as a friend, that is true,” Enjolras agreed, then lowered his eyes as if embarrassed. “I have always tried to conceal how I truly see you, for it is a distraction from the cause. But now that I see you before me, I cannot deny how I feel, though I still cannot bring myself to say it aloud.”

After a moment of silence, Enjolras raised his eyes, and found tears beginning to stream from Grantaire’s. Enjolras congratulated himself on his impressive acting skills. Perhaps he could make a victory of this after all.

“If you mock me, Enjolras, please reveal yourself now. My heart is fragile and will not withstand another shattering.”

Enjolras felt a twang of guilt in his chest, though perhaps not as much as he should have experienced. “I do not lie, Grantaire. I wish to… that is, I mean to ask whether you would accept my… _affections_.”

Abruptly knocked from his balanced crouch, Enjolras found his behind hitting the uncarpeted floor as Grantaire barrelled into him. He tensed up, preparing for a kiss, but instead was enveloped in a tight embrace. Enjolras forced himself to relax his shoulders, then brought his arms up to wrap around Grantaire’s.

“If this is a dream, I hope I never wake,” Grantaire whispered into his hair, then turned to press a gentle kiss to his crown. Louder, he said, “You must know that I love you, Enjolras. For whatever you wish, I am yours.”

Though Grantaire had said almost as much countless times before, this time Enjolras thought it sounded tender rather than taunting. Having roused a little genuine affection for the man, though its character was more pity than love, Enjolras felt able to continue his act.

“Might I steal a kiss then?” he asked, trying to sound hopeful. He had heard this line in the theatre somewhere, and hoped it was not too clichéd a question.

Grantaire pulled back and regarded him, his gaze focused on Enjolras’ lips. “It is torture to deny myself when I still have doubts that I will ever have the chance to be kissed by an angel again, but I suppose I am an old romantic. I would wish for our first kiss that it is memorable for the right reasons, not because my mouth tasted vile.” Grantaire twisted his lips in a grimace.

Enjolras managed to mask his relief behind a shy smile. “Of course, whatever you wish. It will be worth the wait, and perhaps the sweeter for it.”

Grantaire had never released one of Enjolras’ hands, and they sat there that way, Grantaire watching him in adoration, until Enjolras could stand the awkwardness no longer.

“What now?” he asked, and Grantaire’s features screwed up in confusion. The effect was not pleasing to the eye. “Only, I am not at all experienced in courtship. Should I take my leave at this point, or spend the night?” Enjolras’ eyes flicked over to the blankets which functioned as a bed, praying that Grantaire would not try to persuade him to sleep there.

“You are too sweet,” Grantaire declared fondly, and Enjolras could not hide his grimace in time. Grantaire merely laughed before launching into the beginning of a dramatic monologue. “I would not dare mar your virtue, dear Enjolras. I already fear I have rendered you filthy just from touching you. Go home and sleep there, my love, away from those who crawl at your feet. Tomorrow, if this fancy has not passed you by, which it surely must, I will be here. Perhaps a little cleaner, so that when I polish your boots I do not mistakenly dirty them further...”

Grantaire could ramble for hours in this manner if left unhindered, and Enjolras stood, sensing that this was a good time to leave. On his way up, he pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s crown in reciprocation, which put pause to his tumble of words. Enjolras made sure that a shy smile remained on his own face.

“Goodnight then, Grantaire. I shall expect you tomorrow at the Musain.”

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” Grantaire replied quietly, his voice sounding somewhat in awe.

Enjolras grinned genuinely then, at a task well done, and left Grantaire’s rooms, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dipping into the brick whilst taking a bath (being careful not to dip it _in_ the bath) was apparently what I needed to inspire me to finish chapter 4, so voici chapter 3!
> 
> Come bug me on my [tumblr](https://veganvenom.tumblr.com/), where you can see how I'm doing under the "veganvenom writing" tag.


	4. La vertu

When Enjolras arrived at the Musain early the next morning, not long after the sun had risen, Combeferre was waiting, two cups of coffee set out on the oak table before him. Enjolras moved around it to greet his friend, then removed his coat and satchel so that he could sit opposite and take a sip of the coffee. It still held some warmth.

“Thank you, my friend,” Enjolras said gratefully, lifting the cup in a gentle salute.

“You’re welcome,” Combeferre replied, folding a no-doubt illicit newspaper in front of him. “So. Will you recount what occurred last night or should I be left to guess?”

“I apologise. I forget that you have as much a stake in this situation as I.” Enjolras took another mouthful of coffee and let it revive him. “I am optimistic that our problem is resolved. Grantaire appeared to accept my apology, though in his state it is possible that he may yet dismiss our interaction as a dream.”

“He was drunk when you went to his rooms?”

“I believe so, though he denied drinking in the past two days. He seemed quite ill and spoke of apparitions, so if not wine perhaps it was opium he was imbibing.”

Combeferre drew his eyebrows together and rubbed at his chin. “I do not discount those possibilities, though there is another explanation. It is heard of that when a man accustomed to drinking in large quantities stops abruptly, he may become ill with a fever, shakes and confusion. Often referred to as _delirium tremens_ , it can be fatal in the worst cases.”

Enjolras frowned, ashamed that he had left Grantaire in such a condition. “Can it be treated?”

“In most instances, yes. The simplest treatment would be to give him more wine, though this would do nothing to cure his drunkenness, of course. Otherwise, a course of laudanum has been found to work on most patients.”

“Will you help him?”

Combeferre smiled gently. “I am insulted that you would phrase it as a question. A doctor – or student of medicine if you must – should always assist when he can. And besides which, I am happy to grant you any number of such favours. I have duties this morning, but I will make a stop at his rooms during the lunch hour. Perhaps when I return this evening, we might spend some short length of time discussing an essay I came across by Ampère on the topic of quantifying atoms.”

Enjolras smiled and agreed readily, and they sat in companionable silence for an hour or so as they finished their beverages, Combeferre perusing his small pile of newspapers and Enjolras drafting letters to leaders of refugee groups. He would need to remember to have Feuilly and Prouvaire look them over in the afternoon. Enjolras was fluent in several regional dialects but no foreign languages, so he wrote the others in French for translation into German, Italian and Polish by more capable comrades at a later date. 

When Combeferre rose, off to attend patients in his role of doctor’s apprentice, Enjolras bade him an absent-minded farewell. Combeferre laughed gently, but finished buttoning his tailcoat and left without comment. Perhaps Enjolras had spoken in another language, absorbed as he was in his writing.

When he had finished the pile of drafted letters to his satisfaction, he picked up one of the newspapers Combeferre had kindly left behind. At some point one of the waitresses, though Enjolras would not be able to tell you which if you asked, had brought him a small plate of pastries. He was just finishing off the last at the same time as perusing an article on the conditions of workers in English factories when he heard footsteps and jovial voices ascending the front set of stairs.

Soon enough, Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet entered, greeting Enjolras with wide smiles. After a cursory inquiry as to his health, however, they returned to the conversation they had evidently been having on the walk over.

“But gentlemen, you were not there to see the legs this young woman possesses beneath her skirts. And if you had heard the unladylike things she says under cover of night when –“

Enjolras ceased to pay his friends any attention once the topic of Courfeyrac’s tale became clear – that is to say, almost no time at all. When he had exhausted the contents of the newspapers, he began to think about drafting a new pamphlet on the subject of the overworking of children, but his thoughts were interrupted when he heard Grantaire’s name mentioned.

“Oh, he is quite well, in fact!” Joly was saying, evidently in answer to a question posed by Courfeyrac. “I visited his rooms yesterday evening, and he was in surprisingly high spirits, though he was suffering from some great imbalance in his body’s – I won’t bore you with the medical details, I apologise. But I brought him a bottle of wine, as he’d requested when I saw him last, and by the end of my short stay in his rooms he was exceedingly gay!”

“What great news, that R appears to have pulled through his melancholic state,” Courfeyrac stated, looking over at Enjolras briefly and giving him a small smile. “Did he tell you what the catalyst was?”

“No, he didn’t,” Joly answered. “Though I could not remain for long – I only stopped by to check his health. I wanted to return home to my mistress before it got too late. He was not particularly understandable, talking in metaphors so roundabout even for him that I was unable to follow very far. But it seemed to me like R was talking about a mistress of his. I did not know he had one since… what was her name, that grisette with the large hands? Isabella? No, it began with a ‘g’ I think. No matter, in any case it appears that there is some new woman to have caught our friend’s attention, and I am very glad of it.”

“As am I,” Bossuet said. “It was a great loss for our group to have been without the only man who loses games of dominoes as often as I do.”

Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras again then, curiosity in his eyes. Enjolras looked down and feigned attention in the closest newspaper until he moved the conversation on.

“Speaking of mistresses, we have heard all about Joly’s for the past several days. But how is yours, Bossuet, this girl whose name you will not speak?”

“She is well, Courfeyrac,” Bossuet answered with a smile. “I do not wish to speak her name for fear of ruining my luck at finding her. She is a wonderful woman, plump and olive-complexioned, with dainty hands and generous smiles. We spent all of last night at home in front of the hearth, in fact. It was very pleasant.”

“At home, you say?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning forward. “You are staying with Joly still, am I correct?”

“Yes, you are.”

“And this girl spent the night with you there, undertaking some very pleasant activities with you in front of the fire?”

“We adjourned to bed at some point, but yes.”

Joly had gone red-faced and attempted to interrupt the questioning, but Bossuet was oblivious and Courfeyrac continued.

“But did Joly not say two minutes ago that he returned home last night to be with his mistress, also? I am familiar with his lodgings and know that they are not so large that either of you might be afforded any privacy in your liaisons. And on top of that, is there not just one bed, large as it is?”

Bossuet quickly realised his mistake, but as luck would have it he was saved from defending himself when he knocked his glass of wine all over his lap, staining the beige cloth a vivid crimson. Bossuet swore and leapt up, in the process tearing his left sleeve on the jagged corner of the table.

As Courfeyrac doubled over laughing and Joly attempted to wipe down his friend’s trousers with a rag, Enjolras sighed with impatience. Grateful as he was to have had some news about Grantaire, he wished his friends would care to act more seriously. Before he could attempt a scolding, however, the door to the back room opened once more, admitting Grantaire himself.

Enjolras almost failed to recognise the man at first, never before having seen him looking so much like a gentleman. His clothing was freshly cleaned – some items were probably even new, since they appeared well-tailored. His cravat was properly tied for perhaps the first time in his adult life. Here Enjolras suspected Prouvaire’s influence since it was adorned with an eccentric flowering pattern. Grantaire’s hair had been trimmed and tamed so that his muddy curls no longer fell below his ears, and the scruff of beard he perpetually sported had been shaved clean. He even seemed to walk with a more upright posture as he approached his friends and greeted them. 

Enjolras considered the man before him, the man he would need to keep as his lover. Did a change of clothes and a visit to the barber’s shop make spending time with Grantaire a less repulsive prospect? Certainly. But a shiny new cover does not change the pages of a book, and Grantaire’s ideals were so far from Enjolras’ own that he still could not manage to summon a sliver of romantic or sexual interest in him at all.

Resolved to continue in his act, though, Enjolras stood, waiting for Grantaire to finish greeting their other friends. However, even when he moved to stand by the small group, clearly waiting to be adressed, Grantaire made no sign of acknowledging him. This was supremely odd, as Grantaire often made a habit of staring at Enjolras at every opportunity. Reasonably sure that lovers were not meant to ignore one another, Enjolras spoke up, interrupting the conversation.

"Grantaire, good morning!" Enjolras tried to strike a tone which was only marginally more affectionate than his usual form of address, since he did not wish to share his plan with the others. "You are looking... respectable."

Grantaire looked him in the eye for just a fraction of a second, but this time was sufficient to read some of the pain and indecision in his gaze. In a moment it was gone, and Grantaire broke eye contact to spin around and gesture wildly to his friends.

"Respectable, he says!" Grantaire shouted with an exaggerated grin. "And whose respect is it I have earned - yours? Doubtful, as any man here will testify that respect from you comes at the price of hard effort, and in this venture I am continually lagging behind. Why make an effort when I could be making love? It is a fool's game, and one at which I would lose if I chanced to place a wager. No, better to keep my coin and watch from the sidelines. And so who else could you be referring to, that I have risen in their esteem by seating myself on a barber's chair? Surely you cannot be referring to society, for that would have unfortunate implications. It might imply for instance, to a man who knew you less well than I, that you put stock in that _virtue_ which aristocrats swear by, that one might judge a man's character by his clothes alone. He might wrongly think you hypocritical, if you are able to speak for hours on the equality of all men, but secretly believe a man in a silk cravat is more worthy of respect than a beggar in rags."

Grantaire paused for a moment to take another gulp of the glass of wine he'd been handed by Bossuet upon arrival, and Enjolras, perplexed at his response, quickly seized upon this opportunity to interject and attempt to placate the man. "I made a poor choice of words. I merely meant to compliment you on returning to us in seemingly good health."

"Oh, you _merely_ meant to compliment me?" Grantaire appeared to decide against pouring himself a second glass and took a swig from the open bottle on the table instead. "I did not think the great Enjolras _merely_ did anything. Are not all your acts grand performances, your words rapturous epics, and your ideals loftier than the clouds? I cannot comprehend you in terms of anything mere, except perhaps in comparing you to a pure, still lake in mid-winter. An ill-advised swimmer does not know whether he will face his fate by freezing in your frigidity or whether he will be doomed to descry his destiny as he is dragged to your depths: death by drowning in divinity." Grantaire hiccupped. "Perhaps I have gone overboard with my words, I apologise. I will leave the poetry to the poets henceforth, but since our dear Jehan is not in our presence this morning I hope you will forgive me for my floundering floridity."

As Grantaire paused again to drink deeply, Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look behind his back, communicating without words. Enjolras wondered if they were as confused as he at Grantaire's behaviour, though perhaps not since they lacked the knowledge of what exactly had transpired last night.

A thought struck Enjolras then: this behaviour from Grantaire was not in fact out of the ordinary, if one considered their history. This left two possibilities. First: that Grantaire had taken him for an apparition last night after all, discounting the events as a fever dream. This did not explain the new clothes, but perhaps he was missing the required information. Or second: that Grantaire was in fact maintaining their cover by continuing with their habitual antagonistic relationship in public, so that their friends would not suspect their changed status. Enjolras struggled with the idea that Grantaire might be being helpful in this regard; it seemed to require more skill and consideration than he possessed.

"Come, my friend," Bossuet said jovially, having come to some sort of decision during his silent conversation with Joly. "Let us take to the streets and find ourselves somewhere more fun, shall we? The night is young and your puns have rejuvinated me to match; I must endeavour to make at least as many of my own before she grows old." 

Bossuet attempted to steer Grantaire towards the door with an arm around his shoulders, and after a moment of stubbornness the man allowed himself to be led. "Very well, Aigle de Meaux," he said, placing the bottle back on the table with reluctance, though it must have been almost empty. "I will tolerate being removed from this place, only since I am finding the company rather cold and hard. You will join us won't you, Jollly, Courfeyrac? Let us go somewhere in which the bricks and marble have more warmth." 

The four made their exit swiftly, Joly glancing nervously behind him and Courfeyrac shooting Enjolras an apologetic look. In moments Enjolras was alone again in the café, and though he worried a little at Grantaire's unexpectedly quarrelsome responses, largely he was content to let the matter lie until the next day since Grantaire was among friends.

Seating himself once again at the table, he took up a fresh sheet of paper and began drafting a pamphlet.


	5. Un visage caché

The rapid clatter of Enjolras’ shoes on the cobblestones echoed through the empty streets as he ran, turning this way into an alley and that way back on to the main road. He could not say from whom precisely he was running – from the police most probably, though it felt as though the danger of all authority chased him. Still, Enjolras had no fear. Instead, as he darted through Paris’ darkened streets, the gazes of her citizens fixed on him from their windows, he was invigorated.

Enjolras turned again onto a thoroughfare that looked only vaguely familiar, but he was somehow not lost. Onwards he ran, for minutes or hours, towards his republican vision. The breath in his lungs did not falter, instead his energy only seemed to grow the faster he went, until the fire in his blood seemed ready to burn him from the inside out.

A cool hand reached out, pulling him into the shadow of a doorway. Though the man’s face was hidden Enjolras instinctively felt safe, and let himself be drawn into the embrace of those steady arms, pressing his face against a broad shoulder. He inhaled the scent of paper, disinfectant, and musk, and his vision began to swim.

“I have you,” Combeferre reassured, grounding him with a kiss to his crown. “And I am yours.”

The endearment sounded familiar, comforting, and Enjolras raised his head a little, allowing his closest friend to press his lips first to the shell of his ear, then his jaw.

“Let us cherish this night,” Combeferre whispered, and Enjolras gasped as attention was paid to his neck. “For tomorrow will dawn a new France.”

Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut as the man sucked, the pain or pleasure – he could not decide to which category it belonged – almost like that from a bite. He raised his hands from gripping sturdy forearms to tangle in the man’s hair, and was somehow not surprised to set his hands upon a workingman’s cap. It had been Feuilly all along, had it not? Of all his friends, this much passion could only belong to one man. 

Enjolras flung the hat to the ground and found himself pushed backward, cold stone against his back and a sturdy body pressed against the length of his front, its warmth fuelling the blaze within him. 

“Citizen, comrade, brother,” Feuilly addressed him, the words muffled by the skin of Enjolras’ neck. “Tonight I would show you the humanity of France, the passion of its sons, and for this you might make use of me.”

Something about the end of that statement sounded out of place, but the brief thought was lost as Feuilly succeeded in removing Enjolras’ cravat, pulling the folds of his shirt aside as he sucked a bruise onto the exposed collarbone. 

Enjolras arched his back, gripping the knot of Feuilly’s own cravat – the thing was a little too soft and flowery for him, Enjolras thought briefly - and pulling upwards. Feuilly complied, allowing himself to be drawn into a kiss, hot and wet despite Enjolras’ inexperience. Feuilly’s mouth tasted sweet and a little tart, like cheap wine, but Enjolras determinedly thought instead of that clever tongue and the men it had won to their cause.

That tongue’s owner abruptly pulled away and dropped to his knees, smirking upwards. Enjolras’ blood pooled in his gut at the sight of this man humbled at his feet. Nimble, paint-splattered fingers – those of an artisan or an artist – worked at the fastenings of his trousers, but confusingly Enjolras was almost overcome by the urge to kick the man away, to tell him he was unworthy.

“Do it,” the man said in answer to Enjolras’ unspoken thought, voice gravelly with emotion and face upturned in reverence. “I would be glad of it.”

Enjolras was about to raise his boot when a clambering noise rose. Was it the men who had been chasing him – had they finally caught up?

The noise became louder and more insistent, more of a banging than the sound of approaching footsteps, and the vision of a man on his knees before him, waiting to be kicked as though it were a gift or a challenge, swam and faded into blackness.

Enjolras opened his eyes to find himself tangled in his bedsheets, his skin damp with sweat and an insistent swelling between his legs. 

The pounding on his door came again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the oddness of the narrative can be forgiven since it was a dream; my dreams are certainly never logical and skip around, swapping characters like this.
> 
> Sorry for the brevity of this chapter. I do have a sketch of the next one down but I thought they would stand better separately.


End file.
